


Hooks dug deep

by StAnni



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 05:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: The monster took a lot, with hooks dug deep.  But it’s not ripping away everything.





	Hooks dug deep

It’s happening too fast and the argument that lead up to this point is already so fucking small in comparison to the snowball of mayhem created in its wake that Eliot can feel the world narrowing down blindly to this singular moment – Quentin running his hands through his hair as he stares at the half-packed bag, probably thinking what to shove in next.

He has tried “Wait, Q, wait, can we talk” and “Quentin, just be fucking reasonable” and every variation of same that he can think of but this is really happening, and it is happening too fast to stop.

As Quentin goes for the cabinet again he hooks a hand around his arm and Quentin ignores, angry, sullen and focused on the task at hand – getting the fuck out of there.

“Q, will you stop, please. Please.” But he doesn’t stop, and he reaches for his jacket and the moment he is out the front door Eliot knows that he is not coming back.

Thank fuck for Margo who is there, did he text her? But she’s there, walking into the room as if the apartment belongs to her – eyes big, assessing. 

“Eliot, get out.” She says to him, all business, at him and Quentin looks relieved, so much so that he has to take a step back, surprised. Margo’s deathstare is fixed on him. “Get the fuck out Eliot, let me talk to Q.”

He is on the other side of the door and the last thing that he sees is Quentin sigh, buckling, Margo’s hand on his shoulder. 

Last night he fell asleep on the couch, which sometimes happens with binge-watching or binge-drinking. But usually they’re in the same bed, usually he falls asleep with Quentin’s warm cheek against his shoulder – with the weight of Quentin’s arm on his chest. This morning he woke up cold from the morning air and Quentin was already awake, staring at the open window, then turning to look at him. And there was a look there, a moment, something – that changed everything. But it’s somewhere else, somewhere past remembering and he just can’t pin it down.

On the other side of the door they are talking, low and if he tries he can make out the words. He wants to. But he doesn’t want to. Quentin’s relief, Margo’s anger. He doesn’t want to hear words around that. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility, the very real possibility, that something maybe changed a while ago – and he is just catching up.

This morning panic had flooded his veins when Quentin yanked his bag from under the bed – wrenched Eliot’s hand from his wrist. “Let me the fuck go, Eliot. Just let me go!”

The monster took a lot. Most of them could see that. But there are parts that they couldn’t see, where the monster took gaping bites from him, or where the monsters within monsters carved out their pounds of flesh. The thing about exorcism is that nobody knows a fucking thing about it. He didn’t get a pamphlet to help him through the “challenges” after he was forced to share his body, his blood, his mind and his heart with a monster older than time. 

The thing about possession is that it is that the demon-soul mix makes for a horrific hell cocktail where your heart used to be. And an exorcism is not exactly neuro-surgery. Recklessly ripping crap the fuck will more than likely leave permanent damage. But then, it’s not as if they had the time and it’s even less as if he has the right to complain.

He can hear Quentin say or yell “Margo, just trust me!” from inside the room. So he steps away, to the living room. The table is turned over and he knows that he did that. He did that. And he knows that it happened this morning when a wave of anger and desperation overtook him in that instant when Quentin moved around the table and shoved it, upset, against him. But it happened after the argument already started, after it all already went to shit. He is almost sure of that. Or maybe, everything already went to shit months ago and he just didn’t want to see it. 

Margo opens the door and they come out, but Quentin doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes downcast and his arms folded safely over his heart. Margo, on the other hand, is all feign bravado, hands on her hips and chin upturned – but he knows her well, too well. She’s nervous. “Q’s going to come to my place, El. Whether you like it or not.”

The monster took a lot, with hooks dug deep. But it’s not ripping away everything.

So he takes a breath. “Can we just talk?” 

It’s meant for Quentin but Margo answers, voice strong but not strong enough to hide the waver beneath the surface – the uncertainty, the pain. “You’re not listening, El. So, no. No talking.” Quentin still will not look at him, after fucking everything. And things happen too fast to stop, like time and fear and guilt and some darker coils of frustration that snap up in defense. “It’s not your fucking place, Margo. Quentin!” And then he does look up, eyes shuttered. “You’re not leaving me.”

The argument didn’t start about the window, or the fact that he fell asleep on the couch. 

Margo takes a step towards him, lowering her arms to her sides and he can see the familiar movements of her fingers, the warm up. “Eliot. Back the fuck up.” 

Yesterday, was it yesterday, Quentin bit his chin as he moved his body in between Quentin’s legs, and things were soft and real and so deeply intimate. He braced his hand on the headboard as he pushed inside, feeling the Quentin’s warm moan against his neck. Yesterday, if it was yesterday, things were good. Perfect. 

His hands are up, calming her. “Don’t, Margo.” Quentin is watching him, guarded, quiet. If they could just talk. If they could just hash it out. “Q, you can’t leave. We can fix this, if we just try…”

“We can’t fix this.“ It’s not the words as much as the tone that lands, cold and quiet – like the distant brittle sound of love torn away.

Things happen too fast and there is no way to stop it. There is no time to make sure that all the good pieces are in place before the bad parts are gashed out. There is no time to make sure which is which.

“What happened last night? Where did you go?” It’s Margo and he can see her, fingers smudgy with battle magic, but she is getting further and further away – even though she is right there, in front of him, next to Quentin, whose eyes are widening in fear. 

The fight wasn’t about an open window or that he didn’t come to bed. There was something else. Blood on the floor. On the wall. Quentin’s eyes, widening in fear.

“I told you. It’s not him, Margo”

And then things happen too fast and there is no way to stop it.

The monster took a lot but with hooks dug that deep, not everything was ripped away.


End file.
